


and the rest is history

by nastally



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, Male Friendship, Musicians, Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally
Summary: The day John auditioned for Queen.- - -Written for the 50th anniversary of John Deacon becoming a member of Queen! 😊
Relationships: John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 48





	and the rest is history

**Author's Note:**

> This wanted to be written today, in honour of the formation of Queen with John Deacon, and so I had no choice but to sit down and write it. Whoops. 
> 
> Literally written in one go, barely edited, no beta - sorry! I know, I'm really selling it, but I was just having fun. 
> 
> I love these boys! That's all there is to it. 🥰

\- - - 

"We don't _need_ a second guitarist, Freddie!" Brian emphasises the crucial word in that sentence with his hands, so much does he wish to get this message across. 

His head is bowed and angled to accommodate the height difference between himself and his bandmate, and as a result he all but looms over him, the look on his face like a storm brewing. 

Roger shoots Freddie an insistent look from behind the drums, twirling a stick between his fingers. _I told you so._ Freddie's eyes flicker to him just briefly before, rather than backing down, he crosses his arms defiantly and raises his chin. 

Springing an audition for a second guitarist on Brian was not Freddie's smartest move, Roger reckons. 

Or perhaps it was, because Brian would have never agreed to it unless it was sprung on him. 

"Darling," Freddie starts, his tone patiently diplomatic. He may be ready to stand his ground over this, but he also knows he'll catch more flies with honey. 

Roger wonders if he should get some popcorn, or step in before things really turn sour. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a snort of laughter when he imagines either Chris or the bassist who's coming to audition turning up only to find them all screaming at each. 

"What we _need_ -" Brian's eyebrows have crept all the way up underneath his fringe. "Is a bloody bassist!" 

"Oh, don't you think I know that!" Freddie retorts. "And there's one turning up shortly, isn't there. So what's the harm in auditioning Chris?" 

"It's unnecessary!" Brian throws up his hands, looking to Roger to back him up in the matter. "You're wasting his time, and our time-" 

"We're not exactly busy," Roger says, playing devil's advocate, and earns himself a glare from Brian. 

"And why aren't we, hm?" Brian props his hands up on his hips, looking between his two bandmates. "Oh! Oh, that's right. It's because we don't have a bassist, which is what we're looking for if there is even going to be a group, going forward, because frankly speaking…" 

"Oh, don't start," Freddie sighs with a flick of his wrist, half exasperated and half pleading, "we'll find somebody, you know we will. _I_ know we will." He flashes Brian a small smile that is perhaps meant to be encouraging, but it wavers precariously.

"Course we will!" Roger throws in, laying the confidence on thick, even though he doesn't quite have it in him anymore, either. It's been a long year and a lot of bassists. But if _Freddie_ stops believing in them, well then, they're truly fucked. 

The smile on the singer's face grows a little more comfortable there as he meets Roger's eye and Roger winks. 

"I know why you're doing this," Brian grouches, his attention back on the small matter of having a second guitarist audition for Queen. "He thinks you're the bees knees so you can’t bear to turn him down, and besides! You feel bad for him because of- of what happened with Sour Milk Sea." 

Freddie quirks an eyebrow, unfazed by that rather astute observation. "And what of it? That doesn't mean he isn't any good. Give the boy a chance, will you? Plenty of groups have more than one guitarist, Brian, it's hardly unheard of."

Brian, for a lack of better words, _harrumphs_ \- and Freddie's face softens. He tilts his head a little, bringing up one soothing hand to Brian's arm and placing it there delicately. 

"You can't possibly think of this as competition. _Surely._ You're our Brimi," Freddie assures him earnestly, "our very own Hendrix."

Brian rolls his eyes but has to fight the smile creeping onto his lips.

"And you know he doesn't say that to everyone," Roger adds helpfully. He's not really invested in Chris auditioning, if he's honest. And he's really not too fond of the idea of having him in the band. Chris is not a bad bloke, but the way he fawns over Freddie is borderline annoying more often than it's not. Freddie doesn’t need his own yes-man in the band, he’s stubborn enough as it is when he wants things to go his way. But Roger also has an inkling that there’s more going on here than meets the eye. Sure, Freddie probably feels bad for Chris, and he probably wants to help his _protégé_ along, but there’s also the fact that Brian has been quietly mumbling here and there about keeping the realistic odds of success in mind, and the far more realistic academic career path he is embarking on. Far more than both Roger and Freddie like to hear it. Of course, the idea that anybody, let alone Chris, could replace Brian, is absolutely laughable. But the notion that you _could_ be replaced, Roger thinks, rather does make you think. About the things that are important to you.

Freddie’s a clever bastard after all.

“Really, I’m only asking you to give him the time of day,” Freddie waves a hand before his fingers settle on one of the long sliver necklaces around his neck, twisting it between them. “He’s so pleased just to be considered, he’s still saving up to buy his own guitar-”

Brian blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Hm?” Freddie continues to fiddle with his necklace innocently.

“He doesn’t have his own guitar?” 

“Well-”

“What on earth is he going to play for the audition then!” Brian demands to know, immediately followed by: “Oh no, no, no, no-” Because judging by the way Freddie’s eyes turn large and pleading, there is only one possible answer to that question.

“Er, what time’s he meant to show up?” Roger interjects, checking his watch.

“Half past,” Freddie replies. “Why, what’s the time?”

“Just gone half past.” Roger puts his sticks down and gets up from the stool, indicating the door with his thumb. “Shall I go downstairs and see if he’s there? He’ll never find his way around the place.”

“Oh God, time flies.” Freddie chuckles. “Yes, if you don’t mind…”

Brian does not look amused, but he nods curtly, lips pursed, and shrugs his shoulders. “Fine. Fine, whatever.” 

Freddie’s gentle “thank you, dear” is the last thing Roger hears as he leaves the room, fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tucking one between his lips without lighting it as he jogs down the stairs. It ends up behind his ear, tucked away for later, when it turns out that Chris is, as a matter of fact, already waiting downstairs. 

The audition goes about as well as Roger had imagined it might. A blind man could see that Chris is desperately nervous, probably because he wants to do Freddie proud, and he fails spectacularly because he is out of practice and made to look more incompetent still when he is handed the Red Special. True to its name, she is a special instrument, one of its kind. Roger knows as much, having tried playing her himself every now and again. To Brian’s credit, he hands her over graciously and watches them stumble through one and a half songs with a perfectly polite poker face, not locking eyes with either Freddie or Roger. Perhaps because otherwise he might burst out laughing. Roger almost does. The whole thing is so ludicrously uncomfortable.

“Alright, alright,” Freddie claps his hands and finally calls it after a painful first half of Cream’s _Sunshine of Your Love_ \- a song that isn’t on Queen’s set list, but Roger knows it used to be part of Sour Milk Sea’s repertoire. However, the combination of nerves and an unusual guitar got the better of Chris, who spends the next few minutes apologising and looking close to tears despite the embarrassed smile which is plastered across his face. Freddie fusses over the boy and reassures him very sweetly, Roger pats him on the shoulder and laughs it off, and even Brian takes pity and goes on to point out and explain the quirks of his guitar in great detail, but Roger doesn’t miss the smug little smirk on his face as he takes her back.

“Right, shall I see if John's turned up?” Roger offers, fiddling with the cigarette behind his ear as he is now itching to smoke it.

The others don’t have any objections, and so he’s off again, back down the entire stairwell which leads up to the lecture hall IC is allowing them to use as a rehearsal space. This time he’s a bit early and positions himself just outside, sucking on his cigarette and keeping an eye out for a bloke with a guitar case because he barely remembers what John looks like. It was late and dark when he and Brian were introduced to him the other night, and they may have been a little inebriated. 

_Christ,_ Roger thinks when he spots John moments later. Seeing him in bright daylight now, he looks very young. Eighteen. Nineteen, at a push. With his dark green turtle-neck, simple black coat and shoulder-long mousy hair, he looks a bit like a modern, teenaged Jesus, with none of the rebellious streak for the part. Roger snorts quietly at the thought, exhaling smoke through his nose, and flicks the butt of his cigarette away just as John catches sight of him.

“John, hey.” Roger gives him a wave in greeting, eyeing the large, square case the young man is carrying in one hand, aside from the guitar case strapped to his back.

“Hi.” John walks up to him and extends his free hand with a pleasant, reserved smile. “Good to see you. How are you doing?”

“Yeah, good. You?” He’s got a firm handshake, mind. Although quite frankly, Roger has no idea if that really says anything about anybody. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing to the case. 

John glances down at it and looks back up at Roger. “It’s my amp,” he informs him matter-of-factly.

“Oh.” Roger nods, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Okay, cool. We’ve got one you can use though.”

“I know.” John shrugs, unperturbed. “But this one’s mine.”

“Right.” Roger cracks a smile. “Your lucky amp.”

The gap-toothed smile he receives in return is a little inscrutable. “Something of the sort.”

“Shall we?”

“Sure.”

It’s a long climb back up. Roger offers to carry the amp, but is turned down even though John is soon out of breath. Rather than make much conversation while simultaneously huffing and puffing up the stairs, they make their way mostly in silence.

Freddie is the only one of them who hasn’t already met John, and Roger reckons he knows exactly what Freddie is going to think. And he’s proven right. The look Freddie shoots him while Brian and Chris - who, for some reason, is still hanging around - greet John says it all. 

_How_ old _is he?_

It’s also the height of hypocrisy, of course, because Chris is eighteen. But Roger knows all too well where Freddie’s reservations stem from. Their last bassist, Doug, had just turned seventeen and managed to irritate all of them thoroughly, but none more than Freddie. Doug’s youthful exuberance and excitement, to put it mildly, and the way he bounced all around the stage with little regard for equipment and their lead singer, was something else. 

He had lasted one show. 

But they have to face facts. None of them are getting any younger, and there aren’t a lot of brilliant bassists their age out there who haven’t been snapped up by other brilliant groups already.

Freddie introduces himself last, eyes shrewd and the smile on his lips tightly controlled. 

“You’ve seen us play before, have you?” he asks a moment later, absently twisting and untwisting the cord of the mic around his wrist while John is setting up his amp. 

“Um.” John looks up and pauses for a moment. “I have… yes. Late last year?”

“And what did you think?” Freddie shakes his hair out too nonchalantly to fool anyone.

“Yeah, it was… good.” John’s response is lukewarm at best, so much so that Freddie stares at him for a long moment, lips parted, while Roger and Brian exchange a half amused, half affronted glance. Who does this lad think he is? But then John shrugs and smiles a surprisingly disarming smile. “It was very dark, you know. And you guys were all in black. I couldn’t really see,” he admits. 

“Oh. Well, that’s a pity,” is all Freddie has to say, and it isn’t until this moment that Roger realises something.

It isn’t John who’s nervous here. It’s Freddie.

In fact, whether he really is or not, John certainly _seems_ at ease and completely unperturbed. He doesn’t seem to care very much whether they’ll end up wanting him or not. Meanwhile, they have a lot riding on this. Except for Doug, none of the other three bassists who have played with them left because they were asked to. None of them _wanted_ to stick around, and no one frets about this more than Freddie, because the unspoken reasons behind “creative differences” are many, and Freddie thinks himself the biggest of all. Roger hates to admit that at least in Barry’s case, he’s right, and he knows that it must sting.

“So, John, what would you like to play?” Brian asks while Roger catches Freddie’s attention with a quick rimshot and gives him a reassuring grin. Freddie smiles back and pulls his lip over his teeth, returning his attention to John.

“Anything you like,” he tells them simply, plucking a couple of strings on his bass guitar. “I’ll try to find my way into it.”

“Right then.” Brian turns to Freddie and then Roger. “Son and Daughter?”

It’s a good call, a song that’s well suited to a bit of a jam. No one objects, and Roger counts them in, intending to take it a bit slower than usual to start with. However, that proves unnecessary. A look of immaculate concentration on his face, John is with them almost from the off. He doesn’t panic or flounder when he’s unsure, just stops and listens carefully, and improvises, taking his cues from Roger until he finds his groove again. It’s very serious and unassuming, the way he plays, tapping his foot to the beat and perfectly engrossed in his instrument.

They end up playing the longest version of Son and Daughter they have ever played, and Chris claps and cheers from the back of the room when they finish. Freddie looks over at Brian and then over his shoulder at Roger, and there is nothing guarded about his toothy smile now.

“That was lovely.”

“Yeah, great,” Brian agress.

“Really good,” Roger nods. 

John smiles his boyish smile. “Thanks.” 

“Wanna play something else?” Roger suggests.

And they do. They play another three songs, entirely for the fun of it, because Roger has no doubt in his mind that they are all in agreement. John is here to stay. If he wants to, of course.

God, Roger hopes he wants to.

Following a rendition of Jailhouse Rock that gets John to grin and bounce (a little), ending in a drum and guitar solo and much whooping and laughter, mostly because of Freddie's antics as he dances around Brian, who is valiently undistractable - John announces he needs to go. It’s a bloody shame, because Roger was dead set on asking him if he wants to join them at the pub. The others look a bit disappointed, too, their newly found merry mood slightly deflated.

“So, you’ll let me know?” John asks, unplugging his guitar and glancing around at them.

Nobody quite knows what to say for a moment, and then they all speak at once.

“Well, I think we’re quite sure-”

“When are you free for rehearsals?”

“I reckon we can tell you now-”

John’s eyebrows rise a little higher. “Sorry?”

“I think I’m speaking for everybody,” Freddie gets a word in first, taking a few steps towards John, “when I say that we’d be very happy for you to join Queen.”

“Definitely.”

“Yeah!”

“Oh.” A nod and a smile is all the excitement they receive in return. “Alright, great.”

“About rehearsals,” Brian starts.

“Um.” John scratches the back of his head. “I’ll see when I’m free and I’ll let you know?”

And that’s that settled. Chris jogs over to them from the back while John packs up his amp and his guitar and bids them all goodbye, until the next time.

Brian leans over to Roger as their new bassist leaves the room, eyes twinkling. “Why do I feel like he just auditioned _us_?”

Roger snickers quietly. “I know, right?”

“What’s that?” asks Chris, who is standing a couple of feet away, holding Freddie’s bag for him. He hasn’t heard because none of it was intended for his ears.

Brian steps closer to him, smiling indulgently. “Oh, I was just wondering. What did you make of him, Chris? Did you think he’s good enough for us?”

The young man’s delight at being asked to weigh in with his opinion is abundant, and Roger leaves them to it and goes to take down his kit. Freddie wanders over to him, slowly coiling a cable around his arm, bursting to share his thoughts by the looks of him.

“Debrief at the pub?” Roger proposes with a grin.

“Yes,” Freddie agrees, lips pursed over his teeth in contemplation for a moment. “But I must say, I have a good…”

“You know something?” Brian skips into their conversation, slinging an arm around Freddie’s shoulders, before Freddie can finish. “I think I have a good feeling about him,” he announces sagely, and is perplexed when this sends Roger and Freddie into a fit of giggles. 

\- - -

**Author's Note:**

> Chris was a member of Sour Milk Sea, a band which broke up shortly after Freddie joined it because Chris became very close friends with Freddie and the others in the band were mad jealous (they were all like 17). 😂
> 
> As many elements of the day John auditioned as I know of are accurate in this fic, but I'm pretty sure I don't know everything. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! ♥️


End file.
